Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Faust Part I

Dedication

Again you show yourselves, you wavering Forms,

Revealed, as you once were, to clouded vision.

Shall I attempt to hold you fast once more?

Heart’s willing still to suffer that illusion?

You crowd so near! Well then, you shall endure,

And rouse me, from your mist and cloud’s confusion:

My spirit feels so young again: it’s shaken

By magic breezes that your breathings waken.



You bring with you the sight of joyful days,

And many a loved shade rises to the eye:

And like some other half-forgotten phrase,

First Love returns, and Friendship too is nigh:

Pain is renewed, and sorrow: all the ways,

Life wanders in its labyrinthine flight,

Naming the good, those that Fate has robbed

Of lovely hours, those slipped from me and lost.



They can no longer hear this latest song,

Spirits, to whom I gave my early singing:

That kindly crowd itself is now long gone,

Alas, it dies away, that first loud ringing!

I bring my verses to the unknown throng,

My heart’s made anxious even by their clapping,

And those besides delighted by my verse,

If they still live, are scattered through the Earth.



I feel a long and unresolved desire

For that serene and solemn land of ghosts,

It quivers now, like an Aeolian lyre,

My stuttering verse, with its uncertain notes,

A shudder takes me: tear on tear, entire,

The firm heart feels weakened and remote:

What I possess seems far away from me,

And what is gone becomes reality.

impressive

"A masterpiece entitled friendship.
Which hangs in a museum called destiny.
On display for a world lost within itself."

nice imagery

wrong post before. the situation is not funny but soufiehere is

good writing.

friends are great; be they turtles or other, good natured, sincere, creatures. hope you find and keep yours

i like it!

Nice and sincere words.
thanks for the vision of true, haven inspired, friendship.

Bénédiction

Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes,
Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé,
Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes
Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié:

— «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères,
Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision!
Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères
Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation!

Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes
Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari,
Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,
Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri,

Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable
Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,
Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,
Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!»

Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine,
Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels,
Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne
Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.

Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange,
L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil
Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange
Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.

II joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage,
Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix;
Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage
Pleure de le voir gai comme un oiseau des bois.

Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte,
Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité,
Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte,
Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité.

Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa bouche
Ils mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats;
Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,
Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.

Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques:
«Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer,
Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,
Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer;

Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe,
De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins,
Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admire
Usurper en riant les hommages divins!

Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies,
Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main;
Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies,
Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin.

Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite,
J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein,
Et, pour rassasier ma bête favorite
Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!»

Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide,
Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieux
Et les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide
Lui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux:

— «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance
Comme un divin remède à nos impuretés
Et comme la meilleure et la plus pure essence
Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés!

Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poète
Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions,
Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fête
Des Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations.

Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique
Où ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,
Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique
Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers.

Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre,
Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,
Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire
A ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair;

Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière,
Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,
Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,
Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!»

— Charles Baudelaire


Benediction

When, on a certain day, into this harassed world
The Poet, by decree of the high powers, was born,
His mother, overwhelmed by shame and fury, hurled
These blasphemies at God, clenching her fists in scorn:

"Would I had whelped a knot of vipers — at the worst
'Twere better than this runt that whines and snivels there!
Oh, cursèd be that night of pleasure, thrice accurst
My womb, that has conceived and nourished my despair!

"Since, of all mortal women, it would seem my fate
To be my saddened husband's horror and disgust;
And since I may not toss this monster in the grate —
Like any crumpled letter, reeking of stale lust —

"Upon his helpless form, whereby Thou humblest me,
I shall divert Thy hatred in one raging flood;
And I shall twist so well this miserable tree
That it shall not put forth one pestilential bud!"

Thus did she foam with anger, railing, swallowing froth;
And, unaware of what the mighty powers had willed,
She set about to draw Gehenna on them both,
Eyeing the fire, considering how he might be killed.

Meantime, above the child an unseen angel beats
His wings, and the poor waif runs laughing in the sun;
And everything he drinks and everything he eats
Are nectar and ambrosia to this hapless one.

Companioned by the wind, conversing with the cloud,
Along the highway to the Cross his song is heard;
And the bright Spirit, following him, weeps aloud
To see him hop so gaily, like a little bird.

Those whom he longs to love observe him with constraint
And fear, as he grows up; or, seeing how calm he is,
Grow bold, and seek to draw from him some sharp complaint,
Wreaking on him all day their dull ferocities.

Cinders are in his bread, are gritty in his teeth;
Spittle is in his wine. Where his footprints are seen
They hesitate to set their shoes, mincing beneath
Hypocrisy; all things he touched, they call unclean.

His wife in public places cries, "Since after all
He loves me so, that he's the laughingstock of men,
I'll make a business of it, be an idol, call
For gold, to have myself regilded now and then!

"And some day, when I'm drunk with frankincense, rich food,
Flattery, genuflexions, spikenard, beady wine,
I'll get from him (while laughing in his face, I could!)
That homage he has kept, so far, for things divine.

"And, when my pleasure in these impious farces fails,
My dainty, terrible hands shall tear his breast apart,
And these long nails of mine, so like to harpies' nails,
Shall dig till they have dug a tunnel to his heart.

"Then, like a young bird, caught and fluttering to be freed,
('Twill make a tasty morsel for my favorite hound)
I'll wrench his heart out, warm and bleeding — let it bleed! —
And drop it, with contempt and loathing, to the ground."

Meanwhile toward Heaven, the goal of his mature desire,
The Poet, oblivious, lifts up his arms in prayer;
His lucid essence flames with lightnings — veiled by fire
Is all the furious world, all the lewd conflict there.

"Be praised, Almighty God, that givest to faulty me
This suffering, to purge my spirit of its sin,
To fortify my puny strength, to bid me see
Pure Faith, and what voluptuous blisses dwell therein.

"I know that in those ranks on ranks of happy blest
The Poet shall have some place among Thy Seraphim;
And that Thou wilt at length to the eternal feast
Of Virtues, Thrones and Dominations, summon him.

"I know, Pain is the one nobility we have
Which not the hungry ground nor hell shall ever gnaw;
I know that space and time, beyond the temporal grave,
Weave me a mystic crown, free from all earthly flaw.

"Not emeralds, not all the pearls of the deep sea,
All the rare metals, every lost and buried gem
Antique Palmyra hides, could ever seem to me
So beautiful as that clear glittering diadem.

"Of Light, of Light alone, it will be fashioned, Light
Drawn from the holy fount, rays primitive and pure,
Whereof the eyes of mortal men, so starry bright,
Are but the mirrors, mirrors cloudy and obscure."

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

... beautiful, beautiful, poems, kc, Valentina, ArtGurl, Dancere!

good to find them here

"love is so short, forgetting so long"

following are some poems by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin


I Will Be Silent Soon

I will be silent soon! But if in days of mire
I ever answered was by thoughtful play of lyre;
And if the silent youths, who understood me right,
Were marveling to years of my poor love's infliction;
And, just, if you yourself, in sweetest disposition,
The stanza, doleful, were whispering at night
And liked the voice, with which my heart itself discovers,
And if, o Lord, I'm loved -- let me, my dear friend,
Oh let me animate my lyre at the end
By sacred name of one who was the best of lovers!
When I'll forever fall into the deadly dream,
Above my dismal urn, say with a good intention:
I loved this poor man, and I had breathed in him
His song's and love's latest inspiration.

I Loved You

I loved you, and it may be from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man.


Winter morning

Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder!
But you, my friend, are still in slumber--
Wake up, my beauty, time belies:
You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden
Toward the northerly Aurora,
As though a northern star arise!

Recall last night, the snow was whirling,
Across the sky, the haze was twirling,
The moon, as though a pale dye,
Emerged with yellow through faint clouds.
And there you sat, immersed in doubts,
And now, -- just take a look outside:

The snow below the bluish skies,
Like a majestic carpet lies,
And in the light of day it shimmers.
The woods are dusky. Through the frost
The greenish fir-trees are exposed;
And under ice, a river glitters.

The room is lit with amber light.
And bursting, popping in delight
Hot stove still rattles in a fray.
While it is nice to hear its clatter,
Perhaps, we should command to saddle
A fervent mare into the sleight?

And sliding on the morning snow
Dear friend, we'll let our worries go,
And with the zealous mare we'll flee.
We'll visit empty ranges, thence,
The woods, which used to be so dense
And then the shore, so dear to me.

Thanks, burgundybry.
I've read this story before but it's an excellent reminder.
Focusing often on the good wolf's traits, helps me a lot: "joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, faith"...

agree. sarcasm can also be as addictive for the dilettantes as destructive for some naive, sensitive, souls.

Nice work, Duck!

"I was on the verge of something big,
and it was then I discovered
the language of trees."
I like the somewhat detached, selfless, tone of your "Dear Envy" verses which, in my opinion, shows a certain level of maturity.

Sending my prayers your way

teasingbrunette, I enjoy reading your poems, especially those that are lighthearted and playful, such as Taste ("fresh morning snow / tops the mountain edge / caressing tree tops / seeing how far / whiteness can go / white / white").
I also like haridassk's version of ~reverence "TEARS WERE NECESSARY IN LIFE /IT SOFTENED YOU MORE / AND MADE YOUR INNER EYES SENSITIVE TO BEAUTY / AND LOVE". His optimistic flare resonates with me more than the stoic "I leave the tears / for they have no place".


Thanks for the inspiration.

Since I'm new to this community, I would like to know if it's acceptable for someone who hasn't posted his / her own poems to critique others'. Just wondering.

Amen to that!
Merry Christmas and best wishes